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Author: Anne Cassidy

Citizen Abo

Citizen Abo

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When the time came, Appolinaire stood with 47 other immigrants, raised his right hand and recited the oath of allegiance. He was wearing a new blue suit that he bought in Benin. He looked like a million dollars.

After he recited the oath, he waited his turn to shake hands with a customs officer and be handed his certificate of naturalization.

Also receiving their certificates yesterday were immigrants from Macedonia, Honduras, India, Nepal, Cameroon, Sierra Leone, Colombia, Turkey, El Salvador, Ethiopia, Denmark, Canada, Sweden, Mexico, Brazil, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, South Korea, Guatemala, the United Kingdom, Russia, Hungary, Nicaragua, Ghana, Bolivia, Pakistan and one other country that I didn’t catch.

They are our newest citizens, the most recent immigrants in a land that is made of them.

E Pluribus Unum

E Pluribus Unum

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I imagine there will be more than one post about this momentous occasion. This is my first:

Today, my son-in-law, Appolinaire Abo, becomes an American citizen. We are gathering soon at a federal office building to witness Appolinaire and other immigrants take the oath of allegiance. For more than 200 years, new citizens have been vowing to support the Constitution; renounce fealty to foreign rulers; bear arms, perform noncombatant service or work of national importance when required by law; and to defend our laws against all enemies, foreign or domestic.

It’s more than what birth-citizens do when we recite the pledge, but this is a good day to ponder the words that have become hackneyed from repetition.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Those words take on a new meaning today. The simplicity of the language and the depth of its meaning. One nation. Under God. Indivisible. With liberty and justice for all.

We are struggling mightily now with some of these ideas. May the fervor of Appolinaire and other new citizens fill us with hope for this blessed nation and renew our faith in the motto “e pluribus unum” — out of many, one.

Small Changes

Small Changes

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Changes: can’t live with them; can’t live without them. Whether willed or imposed, they present difficulties — or perhaps I should say “opportunities for growth.”

Shifting to another spot in the Metro parking garage because there’s an 18-month rebuilding plan, for instance. Or switching my commute from drive, Metro and bus to … drive and Metro alone.

Small changes, one imposed and one chosen. Both a lot to wrap my head around before 8 a.m.

They’re just ways to stay limber, I tell myself as I walk to work. As if to underline these thoughts, I trod upon the first crinkled brown leaves of the season. Is it autumn already? No, just a couple of streetscape oaks that have fallen on hard times.

Almost Empty

Almost Empty

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It’s the dog days — and I’ll take them. Uncrowded Metro, open roadways, Congress in recess, school out for summer. It’s a lovely pause, one to savor.

Walking back to my car in the warm air,  I passed through the tunnel, dark enough by 6:30 for the lights to be illuminated. From the neighborhood that backs up to Route 66 came the sound of children playing, the voice of summer.  I smiled broadly at a stooped woman in a sari and she smiled and waved in return.

Everything seemed in harmony:  the bushes and trees, the sky and land, the people and place.

The world seemed almost empty, and that was fine with me.

13 Hours

13 Hours

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I was confused at church yesterday morning when I heard there were prayers for El Paso and Dayton. Dayton? How did I miss Dayton?

It wasn’t hard to do, given the timing and the (apparently magical) thinking that there just couldn’t be two mass shootings in less than 24 hours. But of course, there were.

Even though we’re getting hardened to random violence, I hope that having two mass shootings in 13 hours will make even the most resigned and cynical among us cry “Enough!”

The resigned and cynical may say they thought Virginia Tech (33) would be enough. Or Newtown (26) and Parkland (17), because of the children. Or Pittsburgh (11) and Sutherland Springs (26), because they occurred in houses of worship. Or Las Vegas (58), because of the sheer number.

Am I alone in worrying that we are forgetting these? There were 12 killed in my state just two months ago, and that massacre barely registers. It has already taken its place in line behind El Paso and Dayton.

And still, we dither. At this point, should we not be trying any sane and fair solution, knowing it will take many solutions … and many years.

This time, can’t we finally, truly begin?

(Photo of Las Vegas, courtesy of Wikipedia) 

Brahms to the Rescue

Brahms to the Rescue

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Brahms came to the rescue yesterday. He didn’t ride in on a white horse, but he was there with his complex melodies and lyricism, with his passion and playfulness.

He was there in the morning when I walked, he was there in the evening when I bounced on the trampoline. And he stayed with me as I sautéed squash and onions and mixed it with farfalle pasta, as I broiled and plated the chicken, as I remembered I had fresh basil to season it all.

What a utilitarian composer! Brahms is not just for bedtime or funerals or academic processions. If you give him a chance, he will stay with you all day long.

(Photo courtesy New York Public Library Digital Collection)

Moving Image

Moving Image

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When I woke up this morning I was dreaming I was snapping a picture. I was a passenger in a moving car, and the terrain we were driving through was like an ancient Chinese painting.

There were human-sized hills, a winding stream and perfectly coiffed trees. There was a sense of scale that made me think I could capture the landscape quickly from a vehicle.

The dream probably augurs nothing. But if it does, could it mean that I’ve become less of a words person and more of an image one? It’s happening to many of us these days.

Of course, there’s the fact that I’m writing about this experience, not illustrating it. And I’m doing it on an outmoded platform that is anything but image-friendly.

Whew! I’m probably safe — at least for the time being.

Night Air

Night Air

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Last night the heat slaked off enough to open the windows, so that cool, fresh night air poured into the house. I fell asleep to the sound of a whirring fan.

It was like another place, the house with night air. Like a place that is part of the world it inhabits rather than separate from it.

The cicadas and crickets were singing their songs, and their music contributed to the feeling of aliveness in the house.

In the old days, we almost never used the air conditioning. But it comes in pretty handy these days, and I no longer roll my eyes at it. I accept the comfort it makes possible.

Still, the best sleeps are those without it, the ones when night air fills the house.

Soporific

Soporific

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Last November, I took the National Novel Writing Month challenge and produced 54,000 or so words of fiction in 30 days. The idea is to punch out a draft, and punch it out I did. But at the end of the month I tucked it away on my computer hard drive and barely looked at it again.

Until my recent getaway, that is. Curious to see just how bad this thing was, I opened it up, held my breath and started reading. And I learned that, well, it wasn’t as terrible as I thought it would be.  Which is not to say that it’s ready for the New York Times bestseller list — or for any eyes other than my own.  But it has a couple of likable characters.

This morning, I discovered that the novel, which I call For Sale, has another attribute.  I’d been trying to read myself back to sleep for almost two hours without success. But after 10 minutes of For Sale I was out like a light.

Perhaps this could be a marketing tool. Watch out, Ambien, here I come!

First Thing

First Thing

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Today, I took an early walk before the heat began building. The sky was full of light but still uncertain. The day did not yet know what it would become.

This is one reason to walk first thing in the morning: the freshness of the air and the sense of possibility.

But there is another. There is the fact that the walking itself shapes the day, makes it more than it would be otherwise.

This doesn’t happen all the time, but it did today. And I’m grateful for it.

(No, I wasn’t walking on a beach, but I was remembering it.)